


Memories of Water

by lamardeuse



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destinies, diaries and dads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sentinel Thursday Journal challenge.

Jim’s pissed off at his father again.

Which is not a big surprise, because their reunion was as tentative as walking over broken glass, but Blair’s kind of hoped there would be a gradual progression there, instead of this two-steps-forward-one-step-back movement that is the reality.  Stephen’s a nice guy, but he isn’t a hell of a lot of help, and ends up withdrawing whenever there’s a whiff of conflict in the air.  Unfortunately, that stink can get about as thick as White Diamonds on Liz when Jim and his dad get revved up.

And then last night when they were all over there for dinner Blair suggested family counseling, and Bill said something typically Bill about touchy-feely attitudes, which Jim took as an insult to Blair, and it degenerated from there.  And when they got home, Blair told Jim he didn’t appreciate being used as a weapon, and that he could defend his maidenly virtue quite well, thank you, and they ended up not talking to each other all day at work, which was a pain in the ass.

Jim has gone off on his own to question a witness late in the afternoon, and now Blair’s home alone, wondering if he should make dinner or just drive over to Forest Heights and strangle Bill.  Option two is starting to look more and more attractive.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and as if Blair’s summoned him, there’s Bill, looking…apologetic. 

“Bill?” he says, stupidly, because the older man is barely recognizable with that expression on his face.

“I, uh,” Bill says.  “Is Jim here?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.  Good.  I was hoping…”  He waves an arm.

“Come in,” Blair says, stepping aside.  Bill nods, moves forward, but just enough for the door to close behind him.

“I won’t stay long.  I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.  I was out of line last night.  The truth is, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about…you…and Jim.”

Blair frowns, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“I’ve kept this a long time,” Bill continues, reaching inside his jacket to retrieve a small leather book.  He proffers it to Blair, who turns the well-worn thing over in his hands.  “When Jim left, he burned a lot of his personal belongings in the back yard, or threw them away.  It was as if he wanted to deny me every last…trace of him.  This is something he missed.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read it.”  He takes a deep breath.  “I want you to have it now.”

Blair opens it up and instantly recognizes Jim’s precise, even handwriting.  He shuts it again quickly.  “This is—a diary?”

Bill nods.  “Written when he was about fifteen.” 

Blair shakes his head.  “I can’t take this.  You should be the one to give it to him.”

He’s shocked when Bill’s hands close around his warmly for a moment.  “No.  Do what you want with it, but it’s yours.”  There’s a look in the old man’s eyes then, a look Blair suddenly realizes he would perhaps have given Caroline, if Jim had invited him to the wedding.

_Jesus.  He thinks…_  
__  
Swiftly on the heels of the startling realization that Jim's father thinks Blair and Jim are a couple is the even more startling realization that it isn't completely insane for him to have drawn that conclusion.  Blair's been to nearly every dinner party and family gathering Jim's attended since reconnecting with his brother and father.  Last night, he and Jim kicked Sally out of the kitchen so they could do the washing up for her.  He remembers standing beside Jim at the sink, elbows and shoulders inadvertently brushing each others' bodies from time to time as they worked.

“Bill.  Listen, I—” he babbles, but Bill cuts him off.

“Look, it’s going to take some time for me to get used to the idea.  But I wanted you to know I’m working on it.”  He looks at Blair with such fear that it twists Blair’s gut.  “Do you think he’ll give me the time?”

And Blair opens his mouth to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s not, that _they’re_ not, and then something bursts open inside him, softly, like the seed pod of a dying flower that you crush between your fingers on a cold fall day. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “I’ll make sure he does.”

  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

When Jim gets home, Blair’s sitting on the couch.   It’s getting dark, but he hasn’t turned on any lights.

“You haven’t eaten yet,” Jim murmurs, sniffing the air.

“No,” Blair agrees. 

Jim hangs up his coat and comes around the side of the couch, sits down beside Blair.  “I know.  I’m an asshole.”

“I’m not starving myself to guilt you into an apology,” Blair says gently.  “I honestly haven’t thought about eating.  Not since Bill came by.”

“Dad was here?”

“Yeah.  To tell me he was sorry for last night.  And to give me...this.”

Jim takes the offered book, an eerie feeling of connection _zinging_ through his veins as his fingers brush Blair’s hand and the leather cover simultaneously.

“Jesus,” he breathes, as recognition slams into him.  “I didn’t know this still existed.”

“Thought you’d burned it?”

Jim’s head snaps up.  “You had a real heart to heart with my dad, huh?”

“It was…bizarre,” Blair admits, his eyes bugging out for emphasis.

Jim chuckles in spite of himself.  “I can imagine.”

Blair’s hand waves vaguely.  “I, uh, didn’t read it.  He wanted me to, but I didn’t.”

“Why would he want you to read it?” Jim asks, frowning.

Blair’s expression tightens, then carefully goes blank.  “Beats me.”

Without letting himself think about it, Jim opens the book to a random page and starts to read aloud.

“‘May twelfth, 1978.’”

“Jim—” Blair shifts on the couch, drawing a knee up on the seat and half-turning toward him.  “You don’t have to—”

_But I do, _some long-buried voice inside him counters.  He keeps reading, driven by a force he doesn’t understand.

“‘I had the dream about the jaguar again.  Only this time there was another animal.  A wolf.’”  He looks up at Blair, sure the astonishment on the younger man’s face is mirrored on his own.  He turns his attention back to the book and sucks in a breath before continuing.

“‘We took off through the jungle until it seemed like we were flying, until I was sure nothing could stop us.  But something did.  I can’t even escape in my dreams.

“‘The trees disappeared, and then we were on a beach.  I ran right into the water, started swimming straight out, without looking back.  I heard a cry, and when I turned I couldn’t see the shore, and the wolf was disappearing under the waves.  I swam back to the place where he was, but I couldn’t dive.  I couldn’t—save him.’” 

“Jesus,” Blair whispers.

“‘This weekend, when we went to Nan’s, I couldn’t even look at the ocean.  Stephen called me a wimp when I wouldn’t dive off the dock.  I guess I am.’”  Jim’s heart is pounding in his chest as though he’s run a marathon.  “God, I remember this.  I remember.”  He starts flipping through the book, because just like that he knows what’s coming, he knows.  He should be scared shitless, but oddly he’s never been calmer.

When he finds the passage, though, he still has to swallow around the lump of fear in his throat before he can speak.  “‘June third.  I dreamed about the jaguar and the wolf again last night, only this time I started sinking too.  It got dark and my lungs filled up and I couldn’t breathe.  But it didn’t matter because I didn’t care.  Because we were finally together.’”

His gaze rises to Blair’s face, and he speaks the next words without looking at the page.

“‘Dad must be right.  What kind of freak dreams he’s a jaguar in love with a wolf?’”

Blair stares at him for so long Jim worries his eyeballs have dried out.  After what seems like a decade he blurts out, “Jesus Christ.  Say something.”

“Your dad gives us his blessing,” Blair says absently.  “Or, well, he’s working on it.”

Jim groans and lets his head flop back on the couch.  He focuses on a tiny water stain on the ceiling.  He’ll have to call the condo corporation about that; might be a leak—

Blair’s hand lands on Jim’s forehead and starts stroking over his hair, like he’s a wild animal in need of calming.

“I’ve never been anyone’s destiny before,” Blair murmurs.  “Give me a second.”

“How the hell do you think I feel?” Jim gripes, and Blair chuckles in a way that sends an unwanted shiver through him.

“I don’t know,” Blair answers, voice thoughtful.  “But I’m actually astonishingly okay with it.”

Jim turns his head to look at him.  If he concentrates, Blair’s stubble seems huge, like a field of blackened wheat stalks.  _Scorched earth policy._  It fits; his own surface feels scoured, exposed.

“Can we try—” Blair begins, leaning closer, then he mutters, “oh, fuck it,” and his mouth closes softly over Jim’s.

And Jim opens under him, opens to Blair’s breath puffing gently into his mouth, to the tentative sweep of his tongue soon after, and it occurs to Jim that drowning would be just fine with him if it could always be like this.

And then he decides that the first thing they’re going to do tomorrow is find a dock and go jump in the ocean.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> First published May 2004.


End file.
